


A Bed Of Roses

by MockingRed



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Another Episode, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Comfort/Angst, Confused Naegi Makoto, Dork Naegi Makoto, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, Fantasy Sex, Fluff and Angst, Freeform, Future Foundation (Dangan Ronpa), Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Masturbation in Shower, Mild Smut, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Sexual Fantasy, Togami Byakuya Being An Asshole, Togami Byakuya-Centric, i keep writing those help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21860899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MockingRed/pseuds/MockingRed
Summary: he was convinced that roses were just objects of deluded beauty that merely wished for him to suffer further.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Naegi Makoto/Togami Byakuya, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 5
Kudos: 74





	A Bed Of Roses

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna write more and post it as one big oneshot but I got lazy. I'll update it soon.  
> This part is an awkward mix of Byakuya's past and Byakuya's love dilemma.  
> Enjoy! ^^

He doesn’t remember it so well; of course this was a side of him that refused to remember. For him, the period of fresh, childish innocence in his life was a phase that did not last long, nor did he will it. Now, he likes to think that he was born the way he is, and that he witnessed no flaws or faults about himself at any point in his life. It was almost hopeless, in a way, to run in seeming cowardice from what he would currently consider improper. The last time he could remember ever wishing to be a different person, one who could break free of the entire corporation and lineage and just be _himself_ , he was little more than seven years old. It’s too late for any of that now. 

God, he wants to punch his seven-year-old self in the face.

“It’s too hard,” he remembers whining, as the tutor looked up from the grade six literature analysis textbook and down at the boy, who was far younger than ‘grade six’. “I hate this. I can’t do it. I give up.”

“Young Byakuya,” that old, coarse yet soft and collected voice gathered. He used to despise it, a part of him he wishes to be rid of still does, but his disliking is fogged by an impression of unwilling respect. “If you wish to stay in your family, and inherit this grand company one day, you must push yourself beyond these limitations. I do not want you to ever say ‘I give up’ again.”

“I’m the youngest anyway, aren’t I?” he slumped back on the plush, red cushioned seat that was made for someone more than twice his size; remembers scanning the ceiling and it’s unnecessary intricate carvings of a bed of roses surrounding some sort of figure with bird wings. “ _What’s the point of even trying?_ ”

Naturally, a pathetic child would blurt out such a thing. He sometimes wonders what would happen if he could meet himself back then. What he would say, or do, to convince this hopeless loser what glory and change lay ahead of him. It strikes him, that in the end his family is dead. Right now, and perhaps there really was no point of trying. 

He shouldn’t let these sorts of things flash through his mind, let alone consider them. 

That distant and vague memory is distorted at the end; he cannot quite remember what his tutor said next to him, that grey old bastard who would copy out papers well more than his ideal ability and watch him sit there for hours on end rifling through them. This memory is replaced with another.

Byakuya, really, can only remember one point in his life that he ever felt any sort of compassion towards anyone; and looking back on it now…

It was that time, yes, he had run out of the manor doors in tears. It was instinctive; a boy of perhaps around seven who had been taught his whole life _never_ to cry, not once, to make a thing of it the first time he felt that icky warm trail down his cheek. He had wanted to sit down in the grass behind that rose bush, but if he did that would mean dirtying his suit. 

Roses. He used to despise them, how they were hinted in almost every piece of artwork in the hall leading to his room and just became sickly and repetitive. Roses, he used to think, were grotesque things. The head of the flower being so shy and conservative - they looked like a bleeding, shriveled pair of lips or worse; and the stalk littered with prickles and thorns that he had to pluck ever so delicately with his thumb and index finger and that would warningly pierce his skin had he not been careful, he was convinced that roses were just objects of deluded beauty that merely wished for him to suffer further. 

Now, he is rather fond of roses, though he would never admit such a thing.

So he was sort of kneeling by this rose bush, with his head in his hands, straining his eyes to halt the flow of tears though the attempt was futile. Then, he heard a sound behind him, and he swiftly wiped his eyes before turning around to inspect what it was.

“Ah, dearest mother,” he greeted, his voice stiflingly watery. 

“Byakuya,” her voice was deceptively gentle. If a rose were given a voice, he imagines it would sound quite like her. It seemed so soft and melodic, but it also sounded dark and hollow. She always seemed to sport a pair of matching dark red lips to go with such an idea. Her voice encompassed all she was. In retrospect, he should hate her. He wants, ever so badly, to hate that woman. “You shouldn’t run off like that,” she had mumbled, crouching down a fair amount though not or never to his level. 

She gingerly reached a gloved, unreachable hand to his cheek; gently brushed the spot where his cheekbone is. He sighed, his gaze on her apologetic and guilty, and he leans in further - rested and embellished himself in her touch and let the tears just flow. It only occurred to him a while later that this was no act of voluntary affection; she was wiping the tears away.

“I…” he started, swallowing the sob that had lodged itself in his throat. “I hate it here.”

“No you don’t,” she ushered, widening that pretty smile of hers and caressing his cheek again, embedding the message into his mind. “You don’t hate it here, Byakuya. Stop telling yourself that you do."

The use of repetition and the whisper of his name was enough to convince him that he really didn’t. He stared further into her eyes. There was something so endearingly mysterious about them that he could never quite recognise. They looked vacant, distant, unfocused. Byakuya, at least he reckons, actually looks more like his mother than his father; she had the same or similar eyes and face, though her hair was perhaps a more radiant shade of blonde than his. She looked like what one would associate with a fairytale Princess. Sometimes Byakuya wishes he did not look so much like her; he sometimes wonders if he’s no different.

“Don’t you want _this_?” she drifted her hand further down to his neck and briefly glances to the manor and the rest of the garden, her eyes widening momentarily. “You can have this, all of it, Byakuya. Don’t you want to be happy?” It’s then when she leans in closer and lowers her voice, her words twist and tangle him and looking back, he really should have known what she was doing to him. “Don’t you want your mother to be happy?”

He nodded his head, and he leant ever so slightly further towards her - chasing the contrasting warmth of her hand. She traced his jaw, to his chin, and gracefully pulled her hand away from him like an inaccessible maiden from a distant dream. His love for her, even now, is a burden to him. God, he should hate her. He should hate her so much. He doesn’t though. He treasured her too much at the time to the point that even now he could never bring himself to truly do so.

“Don’t you love your dear mother, Byakuya?”

He nodded again, this time a tinge more eager. He had reached his hand toward hers, to the only love he had ever felt, but she had long pulled away before he could. 

“Then, you have to try your best,” she distantly gestured him to his feet. “Inherit the company, Byakuya. Wouldn’t it be remarkable?” she turned away, the dark red dress of hers trailing away, and the boy helplessly watched as the slender, curved figure of his mother melted away in the angelic notion of a swan and back up to the steps to what was his own hell. 

“Mother!” he called, finally stepping paces behind her and hastily back into the manor. She slowed her steps to listen to him, but she did not stop. “Do you love me?”

In response, she merely smiled at him. A lingering smile, one that inflicted a painful throb in his chest and that would haunt him years later. 

He thought that cruel smile meant ‘yes’, that she _did_ love him. She was all he had in this world; his salvation, his comfort and protection. She was his mental anchor. She was everything to him - the warm flame amongst the darkness and desolation of everything he had ever known, and it was in these books that he had grown up with since forever that he had been blinded by the kindness and love a mother was supposed to provide it had rendered his throat dry and he drank her charade up. It was that moment, that smile, he decided that he would endure it. He would endure every expectation this world had to throw at the youngest Togami tribute, no matter how painful it was, no matter how unhappy it made him. He would do this all for her, and he would force himself to learn to share her love for glory.

 _No_. He thinks. Current him. The one after the events at Hope’s Peak. The one thrown into this world of despair and was assigned to build everything back up from dust and dark. He knows now, he knows what hope truly is, and he knows that the hope she gave to him was false all along. 

She loved the “Togami” name - not Byakuya, not _him_.

* * *

* * *

Glasses and glaring screens are not the best combination with tired eyes as he bores into the screen. His mug is empty, evident from the strain across his knuckles from where he briefly picked it up and put it down again just as quickly when he concluded that the lack of additional mass equated to said emptiness. He hadn’t slept in three days, it was no wonder his mind and imagination had been off the rails recently. He’s very tempted to slump back in his chair, but he decides not to - convinced he would fall asleep immediately if he did. He would normally ask Toko to fetch him another mug of coffee or to watch over his work for him, but despite her dedication to stay loyal to him at all times it was quite likely that even she was asleep right now. 

What time even was it?

The clock on his computer reads four twenty in the morning, while his watchface reads four twenty-two. In his state of mind he thinks that such a mistake is careless, unacceptable and petty, and he suddenly wants to break the clock, though he cannot decide between the two. The computer would be beneficial due to the obnoxious glaring screen that was burning his eyes the longer he sat there, though the watch would also be ideal to break because it had seemingly plastered itself to his wrist with a layer of uncomfortable sweat. Then again, there are important files on that computer, plus the watch was expensive. He decides that he would either ruthlessly destroy, burn and scrap both of them or just go to bed. He still feels like getting some work done, but it’s outweighed by the fact that he’s far too tired to actually care, and that's a lot - especially for him 

As he makes his way back to his room, it strikes him that amongst all this, he was ironically supposed to be the one cut out to be the boss, which was technically what Makoto Naegi was to him instead. Perhaps, had Byakuya not been tempted in the slightest by despair during that final trial, he could have taken his place. Perhaps if Byakuya had his mind and heart and ideals, he could…

When he enters the elevator, courtesy was out of the window with him. It’s empty, and instead of turning around to face the door like any morally functional human being would, he tiredly braces his arms against the back wall and hunches himself forward, against the mirror. He removes his glasses, wiping his eyes, and he feels sickly given how puffy they are. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and he looks appalling. His hair is flat and almost greasy, and his colourless face contrasts to the dark circles and lines beneath his eyes. His eyes are almost bloodshot, and the downcast and lifeless expression he meets himself with reminds him of either a worn porcelain doll or an old man. He is fond of neither.

It’s a tired, vacant walk back to his room, and once he gets in he makes a break for the bathroom instead, and not the bed that he seemed so magnetized to. He could do with something warm. Something to relieve himself from every heavy weight that dripped from the tense line in his shoulders. 

The thought still irks at him. Somehow he still wonders why he even bothers to make an effort with that select few that he shared the experience of the Killing Game with. It has been years, and he never liked to consider himself a nostalgic person. Despite their insistence, he hated it when the others referred to them as a ‘family’. There was no blood relation at all, frankly it was a stupid and childish illusion. 

He’s thinking all this as he strips, and carelessly tosses the garments to the floor by the sink. He sets his glasses by the marble soap dish right beside the sink. It sends his sight rather fuzzy, and it spares him another glance at himself in the mirror just opposite, he would rather not be reminded of the uninvited unattractiveness that settled upon his otherwise gorgeous features. The shampoo he uses would normally be the one with the dark, rather delightful misty scent to it, but the one he has here is standard and scentless; but he assumes he makes up for it with the expensive bar of soap that is packed with all sorts of things to discard dirt and withhold his skin. Call him somewhat of a narcissist, it doesn’t matter. It generally takes him at a minimum, ten minutes until he is satisfied with the state he has left himself in, but he assumes he might wait a little longer - just to relieve the muscle tension that gripped him all around, that really should not be there. 

He thinks distantly that a bath would have been wiser, if he is indulging in himself this much already, but he reminds himself that he does not want to spoil himself that much, it’d take too long, not to mention the fact that it was ultimately too late now. 

Speaking of ‘indulgence’…

He used to ponder if there was ever a way to relieve oneself but stay awake at the same time. He was curious if there was an act or word to accord to such a thing. Surely if there was, it would be rather more known, wouldn’t it? It only struck him admittedly some time ago, that the closest thing that fit with that description was remotely most things that fell into the category of themes that were rather sexual. Byakuya _knew_ that he was an attractive person, given all the girls and even the select number of boys that would uselessly oogle at him, but he would never give himself away so easily to such efforts. Fukawa was certainly a blatant example. He never gave his personal attraction a second thought, as the time he would really require it in mind was the time he felt necessary to continue with the classic tradition within his family that the likes of commoners such as Naegi would find twisted.

He was raised to believe that love was meaningless, and he still wishes to correlate with that belief, but the rare times he would even consider the idea of self-indulgence such as now he would simply dissociate the other to him in every way. He imagines them as faceless bodies of sex and warm, lingering breaths and filthy sounds, or he would think up some sort of ‘ideal’ that he knew simply could never exist. To him, as awful as it may sound to an average person, but he never considered himself capable of ‘love’ in any sort of romantic way. There was no point to it, he would have to do it with a handful of different ideal women anyway, so emotional attachment was a field he would more or less wish to avoid.

He still goes with it, though. He must not complain. This was how it was always supposed to be the minute he took his first breath, the minute he was honoured the title of the Togami successor. He could break such a tradition if he really wanted to, but he saw that as unwise and disgraceful. 

He wonders what Naegi would make of this.

He’s the only other person he has ever told so upfront - and the other boy, in that moment, had made a face as if Byakuya had just killed a man right in front of him. It was a confused mixture of shock, disgust and pity. He thinks it was a mistake to tell him soon after, before he mentally assured himself that the dimwit was prodding him for more intimate information about himself. Yes, he’ll admit that he considers Naegi to be the closest person he is to right now, despite their roles. He’s read a few books about female secretaries getting their bosses all hot under the collar, and one feverish night he briefly considered becoming Naegi’s secretary and seeing where it would play off from there, or perhaps the idea of Naegi becoming _his_ secretary instead like he had envisioned back at Hope’s Peak. Of course he hates himself for allowing a thought as disgraceful as that to pass through his mind, but it’s there, and the best thing he can do about it is try to forget.

There’s something somewhat desirable about Naegi that he has not quite and refuses to acknowledge. He isn’t quite sure if it is merely a shared mutual respect or something else that he utterly dreads. Sometimes a voice in his head screams and begs for him to make some sort of move, but that voice is irrational to him - he cannot trust it completely. No matter how smothered the feelings are, they are still certainly there. Initially, he supposed that if he ignored them for such an amount of time they would simply fade away, but that was still back at Hope’s Peak, when Naegi saved his momentarily stupid ass from some sort of depression after hearing the otherwise dreadful news that all his family had died.

His dreams are big, as is his influence on everything about him, currently speaking. It seemed with each passing second, the more Byakuya viewed him as some sort of ray of unique gorgeousness. He’s loosely convinced that he will never find anyone like Naegi again, and it is a bitter thought as it is a sweet one. He has never indulged himself so much in anyone quite the same, and it’s as horrifying as it is wonderful.

He still refuses to accept the fact that it hurts whenever he notices Makoto Naegi’s eyes light up whenever he set them upon Kyoko Kirigiri.

With patters of light, blissful water across his easing muscles, he decides that perhaps he should not think about ordeals that will only stress him further. He tries to think of something nice, something he wants, something he wouldn’t mind having; but all that crosses his mind as he desperately seeks some sort of relief is the man he has his heart set upon, and he hates it.

He’s not even so good with the romantic side of love; he’s more familiar with…

If Makoto _was_ his, he would love him in the best way he knew, and it was petty and disgusting of him. He feels like a stupid, horny teenage boy - but he concludes that he’s just about come this far, he might as well go all the way.

He’s never truly done this himself, as he has never met anyone he considers as marginally ideal, but he’s naturally educated in the field. 

He has seen Makoto blush more times than he would like to admit, and he has liked them more than he would like to admit. No matter what he does, he’s quite eager to see those faces again. He imagines that petite build of his beneath him, and those eyes of his to be lidded and his chest heaving so much he groans and shudders whenever he has an intake of breath. His face would be an unwilling shade of pink, and that lovely pink would trail down his neck and torso amongst marks of teeth and mouth and spit, and as Byakuya peppered more asserting marks upon him he would weakly clutch at his hair and push him down closer - wanting to be marked, knowing he deserves to be marked and how proud of it he is. His noises would be faint and shy at first, and it would not be until Byakuya’s ushered request that he holds nothing back that the small keens would escalate into open-mouthed pants and moans. He’d like to see him desperate, on the brink of complete surrender though not quite there yet, and the current hand pumping his dick faltered and stiffened at the mental image of Makoto scouting down and pressing a warm and wet mouth over his concealed erection. He bites his lip when he feels something akin to a whimper bubble up in his throat and he swallows it down until it corks his breathing and he suddenly seems so dizzy and lets out a low grunt instead - squeezes his eyes shut and pretends that Makoto is in there with him, sucking him off because he wants to please his master and letting out hums of content when Byakuya fists his hair and impulsively jolts his hips forward and deeper into that euphoric tightness with an instifleable groan, and Makoto would be determined to let him do as he pleased. He uses his mouth like a heedy little toy, the enthusiastic bobs of a head stilling and the deep whimpers becoming harder to ignore and Byakuya starts relentlessly fucking his throat. Fingers and nails digging into his thighs and the tiny vibrations of Makoto’s ecstasy that would shoot fire into him, and when he comes he’s buried deep inside and his cum is swallowed eagerly; and Makoto would pull of, stare up at him through damp, teary lashes and whisper a breathless and forbidden “ _I love you_ ”.

That forces more from him, and through his orgasm he writhes and weakly tries to smother his sobs. It strains his chest and he takes in a heavy breath of air and warm water. He’s giddy, and he thinks his legs are suddenly going to give way beneath him. They don’t though, and within a matter of minutes he collapses onto his bed, and he feels so tired and hot that he passes out almost immediately.


End file.
